


Our Daily Rituals

by ihavebeensherlocked (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hospital, M/M, Reichenbach AU, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ihavebeensherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theoretical Reichenbach AU written before the last episode aired. Sherlock survives the fall and is hospitalized. John watches him and develops a ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Daily Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on tumblr: "can you write a fic where sherlock doesn’t die/disappear after reichenbach? like he goes to a hospital or something"

Two weeks after the fall, they’ve moved Sherlock into a private room. It’s comfortable, John thinks, in all the ways Sherlock would hate. There’s varnished oak paneling on the walls, and a tasteful painting of London hangs on one of them. There are two plush armchairs in the room, even a small, overstuffed love seat that John looks at and thinks  _Sherlock would never be able to lay out on that with his long legs_  the first time he sees it and he smiles before he catches himself. It’s kept clean, always, and somehow manages not to have the terrible, astringent, medicated smell that John associates with hospitals. It is not Bart’s. Mycroft was insistent about that for reasons he would not give John, and what would John argue for anyway? 

If not for the ( _immense, too immense, he looks so small so broken)_ hospital bed in the middle of the room, surrounded by a number of beeping, dripping, recording machines, it would be easy to forget that they were in a hospital room at all.  
He’s settled himself into one of the chairs, not the closest one to the bed. He doesn’t let himself to be close enough to see each and every bruise that still blossom on his skin, now mostly mottled yellow and fading purple. But they’re still there, as are the cuts, some stitched, some plastered. There’s a narrow cut down one temple that the nurses have removed the bandages from. It’s shallow and healing and will leave the barest scar if any but for now it is a red, angry line on Sherlock’s face and John can’t bare to look at it.

——

Sometimes when he’s there other people come to visit Sherlock. Mycroft never visits when John’s around, but John is sure he must, and of course visiting hours mean nothing to Mycroft. But John’s there the first time Lestrade ducks his head into the room, looking as if he’s unsure if it’s the right place or if he even wants to be there. John is in the same chair, furthest from Sherlock, and Lestrade gestures for him to stay put when John makes to get up and leave. They exchange brief words, they can’t be called pleasantries, and Lestrade stands awkwardly over Sherlock’s bed, looking down at him. John gives him all the privacy he can from his chair on the other side of the room, but he still catches the guilty look on Greg’s face, the hand that reaches towards Sherlock’s bandaged fingers and hesitates before pulling back.

Mrs. Hudson is the only person John has ever seen sit in the arm chair directly next to the bed, near Sherlock’s head. She’s asked him to stay with her as well, and this time he stands, just behind her, his hands on her shoulders, trying to be as comforting as he can manage even though it hurts him, almost physically, to see her clutching at Sherlock’s wasted hand, body shaking with sobs. She begs Sherlock to move, to wake up, to start solving cases again because Baker Street is too dull without him and John’s jaw clenches and he bites his tongue so he doesn’t yell that he’s been asking Sherlock for those same things every day, nearly every hour for the past 3 months.

————-

Anderson and Donovan actually visit once. John doesn’t know what to say to them, doesn’t ask them if they’d like him to leave, just sits in his chair with his arms crossed, watching them look at Sherlock’s still form in the bed. They mutter words he doesn’t hear, doesn’t really care to hear, and they look ashamed when they leave and John thinks  _good riddance._

_—————_

_I hate this_ he thinks as he walks down the familiar corridors. It’s early in the morning and it’s not visiting hours yet, but the hospital staff know him well now and John hates them. Hates the looks he can feel on his back, their pity for him, the man that has come nearly everyday for the past year. Hates them for not being able to do more for Sherlock, for not making him well already.  
When he reaches Sherlock’s room, he sinks into his chair, now worn to the contours of his body. The couch, as far he knows, has never been touched.  
He has a ritual now, developed over the months as the number of visitors slowly trickled to a stop. It starts with coffee, which he’s picked up from the cafe across the street from the hospital (he tried the stuff from the hospital mess once and hadn’t been able to get the bitter taste out of his mouth for the rest of the day and just couldn’t deal with that). He takes it with sugar now, partly to cut the bitter taste he’s less fond of now, and partly because it’s part of The Ritual.  
He sits in his chair and drinks his coffee, sometimes letting his eyes drift across Sherlock’s body, mostly just looking at his shoes as his sometimes trembling hands grip the coffee cup. It’s the silent part of the ritual.   
When the coffee is finished, he must get up and throw it away in the only bin in the room, under the nightstand next to the hospital bed. His feet are heavy, every day, as he goes to stand over his friend. The external injuries are all healed. Sherlock has scars now, some of them quite ugly, John will never be able to win a contest there. His face is unmarked, even his temple, though he his notably thinner, his cheekbones somehow even sharper and John lets his fingers ghost over them. This too is part of the ritual, taking in Sherlock’s appearance, touching him as gently as possible. John’s not sure if he’s scared of hurting Sherlock, or terrified that one day he’s going to brush Sherlock’s fringe back and Sherlock’s eyes will snap open and he’ll start screaming. So John is gentle.  
Once John is satisfied looking, he stays by Sherlock’s bed, and begins to tell him about his dreams. They’re nearly always bad, and John wonders if it’s good for him to tell Sherlock about his nightmares, wonders if somehow they’re getting through to him and he’s just filling Sherlock’s head with the fall that the man has already  _somehow_  lived through. But he can never help it. Last nights dreams were particularly terrible which is why he’s come so early, why he’s shaking as he talks about watching Sherlock slip through his grasp and everyday he has to keep himself from just  _screaming_  at the man.

Not Screaming is part of the ritual.  
——————

“No. Absolutely not. Mycroft, how could you even suggest—”

He’s on the edge of hysteria, fingers digging into the plush armrests of his chair and Mycroft has held up a calm hand to stop his protests.

“John, the man is my brother. I’ve invested considerably money and resources to his care here, and after 2 and a half years he’s not getting any better. John… think of what this is doing to his  _brain._  Think about that. This is barely…this isn’t even Sherlock any more,” Mycroft refuses to let John look away from him, forces John to listen to him. ”Not as we knew him.”

His nails continue to dig into the upholstery of that hated chair. He does not shake. His voice is even.  
“You’re wrong. He’s still in there. He’s… he’s got to have his data backed up or something,” he says this with a grim determination and then barks out a burst of laughter. “There’s no way I’ll let you do this to him Mycroft. I know…look, I know you’re his brother and I have no legal rights but….please. Don’t do this.”

Mycroft continues to watch him for a moment, his face carefully schooled to betray nothing.

“You’re right John, he is my brother,” he finally says before moving towards the door,”But it’s you he’s going to need to see when he wakes up. Be sure that you’re here, wont you?”

John stares at Mycroft’s back, then the door for long moments before he finally collapses back into the chair, raking his fingers through his hair and over his face. He laughs desperately, quietly for a moment.

He spends the first of many nights on the small couch after that.

——————-

Months later, John is lucky enough that the hospital has given him part time work when he asks for it. He knows it might be Mycrofts influence as much as his own medical experience, but he’s grateful for it all the same. The work means he’s not idle all hours of the day, sitting in Sherlock’s room with an oft-read paper back. There’s a pretty nurse in Geriatrics that sometimes smiles at him when he hands off paper work and he thinks  _yes I think I could go out to dinner with her and maybe if she asks me back to her flat one day I wont hesitate and I won’t feel guilty for not being here_.

He asks to be in the E.R. as often as possible. The urgency and the variety of patients keep his mind and body occupied. He says nothing though, when he realizes he’s not being paged for serious trauma injuries. He can stay busy enough.

  
And sometimes Mrs. Hudson pops by when he hasn’t been to Baker Street in too long but it still hurts to meet her sad eyes. He thanks her as kindly as he’s able for her visit and sometimes for the warm meals she brings him and tries to reassure her that yes, he’ll be home as soon as he can find time and lies about how busy he is with work at the hospital.   
And sometimes Lestrade finds his way to Sherlock’s room and still seems surprised that Sherlock is still laying there, unchanging and the guilt touches his features. When he comes, it’s with a case and sometimes John will study the files and purse his lips and try to guess as best he can, but often he’ll hand the folders back to Greg with a shake of his head because they both know he’s just  _not him._

And John sort of likes this new routine, it’s starting to feel like a life to him again, even if half of it’s spent in an uncomfortably comfortable room with a man who wont move even when John stands over him begging. He’s now used to the way his feet hang off the edge of the sofa when he sleeps there, used to taking his coffee with two sugars every morning, used to the pretty nurse in Geriatrics that still smiles at him, only now it’s a little sadly and wistfully because John never could bring himself to go back to her flat. So yes, he’s as close to happy now as he can be, since Sherlock fell.

And when a nurse interrupts him in the middle of examining a patient two floors down from Sherlock’s room and delivers an urgent message, he takes the stairs up two at a time rather than wait for the lift.

Sherlock’s sitting on the edge of the bed, slowly working his feet into a pair of flimsy hospital slippers when John throws the door open. Sherlock doesn’t have the energy or strength to snap his head up at the sound of John’s startled choke of air, but his face is crinkled with a familiar grin as he slowly looks up at John. John, who is taking long strides towards him with hands slightly outstretched as if to catch himself from falling, or to touch Sherlock to ensure this is not another nightmare.

“My doctor,” Sherlock rasps when John is standing over him. His voice is papery with disuse and John wants to  _shout at him,_ shout because he’s been begging Sherlock to wake up for years, to talk to him, to be himself again and  _how dare he wake up without John there_  and where are the nurses because Sherlock should absolutely not be trying to get out of bed, shouldn’t even be  _sitting up_.

John doesn’t yell. Doesn’t know if he can speak just yet.

Carefully, so carefully, he pulls Sherlock towards his chest and buries his face into those wild curls  _curls that still somehow smell like he always did, like smoke and musk and gun powder how is that even possible_  and he just mouths “My Sherlock” against his jaw over and over.


End file.
